


the Fun in Funeral

by BigScaryDinos



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Angst and Porn, Breathplay, Canonical Character Death, Cheating, Choking, Consensual Non-Consent, Control Issues, Dubious Consent, I Will Go Down With This Ship, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, M/M, Not Beta Read, Not Canon Compliant, One Shot, Past Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Relationship(s), Past Violence, Porn With Plot, Ramsay Bolton is His Own Warning, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-24
Updated: 2020-12-24
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:34:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28288524
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BigScaryDinos/pseuds/BigScaryDinos
Summary: When Balon Greyjoy dies suddenly it's up to his only son to plan the funeral. Theon calls the only funeral home he knows and has no intention of getting fucked inside a coffin.XXAKA : You didn't really think I would never write Thramsay again huh?
Relationships: Ramsay Bolton/Theon Greyjoy, Theon Greyjoy/Robb Stark
Comments: 6
Kudos: 30





	the Fun in Funeral

After nine at night, when Kyra leaves the desk to go home; the phone is placed on service. Unlike a doctor’s office or otherwise “serviced” line, this simply reroutes it to one of the core family members. They all take turns and rotate so that normally the same person isn’t “on call” every night all week. This is the same routine for after hours, weekends and holidays. Without exception if you call the number provided on the back of the business card printed on thick black premium card-stock you will always get a real voice on the other line - that is Roose’s promise. Midnight on Christmas. Three AM on a Sunday. None of this matters, somebody will answer, He will tell you exactly that when he shakes your hand after you’ve picked out the ideal package to ship you off into the next world. Tonight is just another day of taking turns playing phone tag for the family business. 

“Bolton’s funeral home.” The groggy voice answers. “How may I help you?” It’s the same lines that have been drilled into his head since he was able to answer a phone. Ramsay’s eyes are not even fully open while he connects the call , keeping the cell pressed close to his face inside the darkness of his living room. Asleep on the couch again after another exhausting day it’s all he can do to listen to whatever will chime into his ear. The voice on the other end makes his eyes spring open as soon as they speak.

“He’s dead.” 

“What?”

“He’s dead. Dad. He’s gone.” 

“Theon?”

“Yeah. It’s me. I didn’t know who else to call.” 

Now he’s awake, looking at the clock across the room bathed in the street lights. It’s sometime just after four am and if it had been any other client on the phone he was sure he’d still be attempting to drag himself out of the cocoon of deep sleep he had surrendered too. Theon’s voice was something he didn’t expect, not really ever. He wants to ask questions, there are a lot of things he would need clarified before they can take the next step between business and personal, but for a moment he finds he can’t think straight. 

Only Theon can do that to him. Make him feel any kind of unprepared - even after all this time. Ramsay manages to pull his mind together by the strands, this is a job after all. No matter what will happen at the end of the day, it’s still work right now. 

“You did the right thing.” All traces of sleep gone from his voice. He puts on the calm reassuring voice he always used around Theon. He remembers the effect it had on the older man very well. “Where is he now?” 

“Hospital.” The voice on the other end, filled with static and crackling feedback sounds thick. An outsider would assume it was sorrow. Tears and mucous clogging Theon up but Ramsay knew him better. He understood in the most intimate way how Theon sounded when he sobbed, when he was choking on his own breaths. 

“Do you need me to pick him up now?” 

“No. I guess not. They have a morgue there. Doing an autopsy tomorrow.” Theon supplies, Ramsay understands that Theon is just being Theon. He bears nearly no love at all for his father and the sensation inside his voice is inexplicably linked to this exact phone call. That’s what is prompting his emotions. Ramsay feels the return of power inside his bones he hasn’t quite felt since Theon grew the balls to leave. “Was an accident, we think.” 

“What was?”

“His dying.” 

“Oh.” Ramsay returns, feeling slow. As if there was a different reason for Theon to have called him at all out of the blue. The younger man is sitting up on the couch, straight as a pin as he listens to the sounds on the other end. He wants to figure out where Theon is now, even though it doesn’t matter. He hears noises that sound like a train passing by, or it could be a truck, or it could be the shitty connection. 

“Yeah.” 

“Did he have a package here?” 

“I don’t think he had a package anywhere, don’t think he planned on dying. Not ever.” Theon’s voice brings back so many memories Ramsay would rather not remember, or instead he would rather remember, but not now. Not so far away and not in what seems like a different life. 

“We all do, in the end.” 

“Yeah, that’s true.” 

The silence stretches between them for what seems like hours. Ramsay doesn’t turn on a light, doesn’t move, doesn’t blink. He waits for Theon to say something but it never comes. He thinks the phone may have gone dead but he hears no beep to symbolize anything like that. 

“Theon, are you still there?” 

“Yeah, I am.” Comes the quick reply. “You must have been sleeping. I should let you go.” 

“No it’s okay. Do you want to talk about it?”

“Talk about what?” 

“Your father.” 

“Like the coffin?” 

“That and anything else.” Ramsay, for working inside the funeral home since he was a boy isn’t as good with understanding emotions as some of his coworkers. He usually tries as best he can but simply comes off as the more business savvy member of the family. He’s not exactly the type of mortician people can usually cry to, so he isn’t sure why he’s letting Theon vent at four am - but it doesn't matter anyway because Theon won’t bite. 

“I don’t know. There isn’t much to say.”

“I get it.”

“I think you only met him once or twice.”

“Yeah, I think so.” Ramsay isn’t able to picture the father of the mostly deceased Greyjoy hoard. All he can see when he closes his eyes is Theon. The attempts to age the person he knew years ago into a stronger fifty something year old man. All he can picture is Theon exactly as he’s always been, weak and whimpering. “Too late now I guess. Do you want to call me tomorrow? Later?” Ramsay doesn’t want to come off as desperate. He isn’t. That isn’t how he’s feeling but it is more invested than just dropping a sale. He wants to make this work. He knows from years of the cycle that if he has enough time with Theon it will be like the time apart never even happened. “We can talk about meeting up, getting a package. The funeral plans.A lot goes into these things, not to sound overwhelming. Sometimes it’s easier to explain in person.” He tacks on at the end; wanting to stress this is business only but that human contact is a must have. He knows Theon isn’t going to turn his back on his connection to work with a different Bolton.

“Yeah. Of course. Sorry for calling so late.” Ramsay can think of Theon on a trestle overlooking the woods, listening to a train coming closer with his shoulders sagging as he exhales. In the real world a car alarm goes off someplace in the distance and he can hear somebody yelling outside his window. 

“No problem at all. It’s what we’re here for.” We. The whole funeral home. Ramsay thinks. This isn’t personal. This isn’t about Theon, or about the two of them or whatever they ever were. This is about a job. A dead person. A casket to be picked out and a choice of flowers. It’s all cut and dry. This is the family business and the youngest Bolton is only too happy to accept this client in his time of need. 

Ramsay hangs up the phone before Theon gets the chance. 

-

Theon thinks Robb is asleep when he comes back in from the front porch, spotting the shape lying on his side on the pull out couch. He creeps in on his bare toes, pretending he’s not chilled to the bone as he inches closer and closer to the couch. Sitting on the edge of the coffee table he rests his head inside his hands and feels drained. The call must have only lasted about five minutes,  _ I had to do it.  _ It’s easier thought than accepted. 

Robb cracks one eye open just enough to see the new shape in the blackness of the dark room. 

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You didn’t have to do that tonight ya’ know.” 

“I know.” Theon’s voice is heavy, Ramsay having taken everything out of him and left him with lead inside his lungs. The exchange went better than expected but it is still a heavy load. Theon is the only child left, except Asha - who is across the world with no plans on returning to see off the corpse of a dead man she could care less about. 

“I imagine that was hard.” Robb whispers like it’s a secret. It isn’t. Not even close. Ramsay is best described as an open secret - everyone knows. Robb understands that they could have picked a different place but there would be no other place. It would only leave Theon thinking about the only funeral home he really knows within driving distance. Understands that if Theon did or did not place the call he would be up all night wondering what would happen. Robb reaches out his fingers and touches the place he imagines Theon’s face is.

“I’m okay.” 

“Didn’t ask if you were okay.” Robb has a way with words, of understanding and knowing what Theon needs. He cups Theon’s chin for a second in a way that might be comforting. The feeling of skin on skin is nearly too much and Theon sinks to his knees so he can find himself closer to the body under the thin blanket. 

“Don’t leave me.” He lets out a wordless cry, something cracking inside of him, the weight inside his chest so great he feels he’ll collapse from inside out. 

“I won’t. That wasn’t even an option.” 

It’s only then that Theon feels the tears on his face. 

_

The sun pierces the windows of the diner on the corner of Broad Street. It seems to focus on Theon’s eyes, for a second he’s nearly blind but in that fleeting moment all his senses are heightened. He hears the sound of the door open, the chime above the door jam setting off and in a matter of seconds a presence across from him in the booth, heavy and sinking into the cushioned seat.

“Theon.” Ramsay extends one gloved hand over the table top. His entire head seems to block some of the rays that are assaulting the older man’s eyes. Theon takes it out of reflex before pulling away as if it’s made of pure fire. His elbow loudly meeting the hard table top. It’s a choice to stay silent against the sudden smash of pain. 

“Ramsay.” His even voice betrays nothing and he’s proud. 

“Thank you for meeting me here. I figured we could talk before we went back to look at the options.” 

  
  


“Sure.” Theon retracts both hands further still until they are under his side of the table. It has been years but the lapse into subservience is like a second skin. He has tried through medication, therapy, healthy relationships - all to break free from what he’s been saddled with and seeing the man across from him makes all his coping mechanisms vanish like smoke. 

“How have you been?” Ramsay strips off his gloves, shoving them into his jacket pockets without flourish. 

“Okay. How about you?” It’s all the lines in a simple script but it still feels like a dangerous tightrope. This is a hostage exchange. You take my dead dad and give me back the pieces of myself that you still kept locked up. That’s the idea. I’ll give you the final sacrifice but leave me alone. 

“Busy. Business is busy.” Ramsay laughs, he smiles. It’s all teeth through his lips. Theon understands objectively how and why he could have fallen in love with this man. Ramsay is shorter than Theon, well muscled, younger. His curly mop of thick hair looks carefully unkempt in a way that makes you think he is attractive. It pairs well with his piercing blue eyes, his broad shoulders, his whole attitude. He carries himself with confidence. He radiates power. The waitress stops for a tick too long by the table before taking down the order, her own poorly lipsticked mouth smiles at Ramsay as if looking for approval. He smiles back and when she walks away it seems she’s a little lighter for the brief attention. That was Ramsay. He pulled everyone and everything into him like a black hole. 

“People die all the time.” Theon remarks once the waitress is far enough away. His father died last night and he feels like they’re discussing the illicit disposal of a body instead of a funeral. In a way it doesn’t seem that different really. 

“That’s very true. My father pushes those lovely little cards out all the time.” 

“Cards?” 

“Oh. You didn’t have a business card?” 

_ No.  _ Theon thinks.  _ I still have your phone number inside my cell phone. It’s saved as  **do not answer under any circumstances.** _ Instead he stays quiet. It’s a moment they don’t talk about, not out loud. It seems the planets aligned in just the right place at the right time to force this meeting. It had just so happened by chance that Ramsay was on call last night and Theon would never even know. He didn’t call the main number because he didn’t even know the main number of the funeral home. He called Ramsay’s cell phone directly as a life line inside a storm. If it had been any other night this week his cell phone would have been off and tucked into a corner of his bedroom. It would have been Ramsay’s night off. He would have seen the missed call in the morning. If he tried to call back, Robb would have already talked Theon out of whatever it was he had been thinking. The returned call would have been ignored. The duo would have picked out the funeral home Robb used for his mother a few years back. All would have been well in the world. 

Things have to happen for a reason. 

Ramsay cuts the silence by pulling a black business card from his jean pocket. It’s so thick it’s not even wrinkled from being trapped inside his tight denim. 

_ Bolton Funeral Home. _

_ Roose. Ramsay. Walda.  _

There is an address Theon recognizes and a phone number he doesn’t. It doesn’t matter. Everyone else in his life could die and he wouldn’t bury another person. He wouldn’t survive it. The card feels creamy smooth and Theon squirrels it into his own back pocket as if he will ever need to use it again. It’s better to lie. Ramsay might not care, but he just might show his true colors if Theon tells him this was all a mistake, that he will never be contacting the Bolton funeral home again. 

“Thanks.”

“Of course.” 

The waitress is back with two large glasses; one filled with dark soda, one with water - one slice of lemon floating on the top. The lemon looks too yellow floating with the ice. Ramsay turns away the girl’s offer of a straw, sipping his water from the glass while his lips curl around the cold.

“Save the turtles, am I right?” 

“What is this?” Theon finally caves once the waitress is gone from earshot. 

“What is what?” Ramsay asks, confused. 

“This. This isn’t you.” Theon gestures wildly at the man across from him. Grand sweeping gestures as if to highlight the point he’s trying to make.

“Sorry, Theon. This is me. I’m not sure what you’re looking to get? Maybe you don’t really know me after all.” It’s infuriating. Even on his best days this act would never have lasted more than two seconds, this boy scout acting so sweetly to everyone. Ramsay has been known to layer it on thick - but never to Theon himself. Theon was the paint stripper, pulling away layers and layers to show the true grime living underneath that faux bubblegum colored coating. 

“I know you, I’ve known you for a long  _ long  _ time.” The words come out more pressed than Theon intended, he feels the heat in his neck start to spread to his face, an aggravating show of his frustration. With Ramsay if it isn’t one thing it's always another. 

“Listen, it’s okay. You’re just going through a lot.” 

“You know what. I am going through a lot. You - I mean you were a goddamn lot you know.” His words point fingers he clutches tightly under the safety of the table. He sounds angry, maybe because he is angry. His words feel spiteful. He wishes Robb were here, beside him, holding his hand under the table, telling him to calm down. An older man a few tables from them puts down his paper, eyeing the pair with suspicion glassing over his eyes. 

“I’m sorry. Maybe this isn’t going to work out. Maybe our company isn’t the right fit for you. For your father.” Ramsay shakes his head as he begins to tug one black glove from his jacket pocket. It’s as if he’s going to stand up and leave like this. Just walk out mid conversation. Theon understands suddenly that without Ramsay he isn’t sure who will bury his dad and it tugs him back away from the accusations of years ago. He is better, stronger now. He needs to power through this. 

“No. It’s. I’m sorry. I’m the one who.” Theon sighs. He feels as if he’s stepped backwards in time by five years, to a time when he had to apologize for living, daring to wake up and breathe. “I apologize. I’m just, you know. Obviously my father died. Asha is gone. I’m the one stuck holding the bag as usual and I’m at a loss.” Ramsay nods, stuffing the glove back into the pocket. He settles into his seat again. 

“Listen, I understand. There’s a lot of things that go into this.” Ramsay uses that voice that he only ever uses on Theon - at least it seems that way. The timber of Ramsay’s speech walks like fingertips on his spine up and down leaving his hair on end. “Grieving.” 

“I don’t think that’s it. I hated him.” Theon sucks angrily at the straw, the soda foaming inside his mouth. He doesn’t feel particularly sad or upset about the loss of his father. When he got a call last night it didn’t seem real. Not in a depressing fall to the ground lack of reality, more so something akin to getting a present you’ve asked for for years and finally receiving the goods. “I’m glad he’s dead. Honestly.” 

“Sure. Of course. It’s still responsibility. You don’t have to grieve for the man, you can grieve for other things. Yourself for one. Between both parents, your brothers, I mean how many of these things have you had to attend?” 

“When did you become such a therapist?” Theon tries not to sound as pissed off as he feels. It’s times like this that Robb would have been such an asset to have at his side. Theon himself had told Robb not to come, that this was something only he had to do. He cursed himself inwardly. He couldn’t be alone with this sociopath spouting self help lines. 

“I work in the funeral business.” 

“You always have. When I knew you too. Didn’t make you come off with some Mark Twain shit like this.”

“You were never my customer.” The waitress is back carrying two plates, the man keeping his own tabs from across the room seems to give up interest and buries his nose back into his paper. He sips his coffee and stays in his own lane. Theon eyes Ramsay’s salad with oil and balsamic then his own plate - a greasy diner cheeseburger with a load of everything fries piled on the side. It looks both disgusting and delicious. 

Theon can remember a time when he wasn’t used to food, eating two peanut butter covered crackers quickly in the middle of the night to sate his screaming stomach. The sound of his concave stomach rang inside his ears. The angry rumble of his empty body would start where he assumed his stomach did but reached all the way through him, rattling his ribs. The man who restricted food, contact with the outside world, and bathroom privileges seems a far cry from the man sitting across from him now. Polished inside his leather jacket, crisp white shirt, clean blue jeans. His curly hair and his boyish face that charms anyone just hides the wolf underneath. Theon doesn’t use a fork, just dips his greedy fingers into the plate, picking a fry covered in chili and cheese before shoveling it into his mouth. Ramsay doesn’t look disgusted the way a normal person should at this animalistic display. 

“I guess you’re right.” Theon says, mouth stuffed full of two more fries still steaming and dripping oil. “You didn’t need me to be, you already had me hooked. I didn’t need a coffin.” 

Ramsay twirls his fork around a particularly long piece of lettuce. A thin piece of red onion clings on for dear life. 

“Yeah, you’re right.” He laughs. He looks up as he eats what’s on his fork. The eye contact is sudden and electric. “I miss you.” He says casually. Theon nearly chokes on his fries. Can feel the fried potato lodge inside his throat with those words. 

He has no idea what to say back. All the cool calculations he'd attempted last night, even the harsh words of today - what would be the answer.  _ Fuck you.  _ Would be one answer, of course.  _ You have no right.  _ Would be the follow up. If Theon was speaking with his therapist right now in a role play he imagines the words he would be prompted to say are something like  _ I understand. I forgive you.  _ It would be an exercise in forgiveness. A redemption arch that Theon never wanted to play a part in. So it surprises Theon all the more when he opens his mouth. 

“I miss you too.” His own heart seems to stop dead inside his chest and he wonders for a second if he won’t have to hand over his own dead body to Ramsay to bury alongside his father. It hits him suddenly his words aren't lies. He does miss Ramsay in some kind of sick way. “You were the worst thing that ever happened to me.” He adds. It’s all true. Each statement is a fact that is indisputable. They are not up for debate and if the truth tumbled out without meaning too, Theon feels it’s only owed to offer more harsh truth to top it off. 

“I know.” Ramsay looks at Theon, eyes catching eyes from across the table. The sun is blocked by his head leading to the halo illusion that turns Theon’s stomach. He thinks again of Robb. This would not happen if Robb were here. Ramsay would never. Theon would never have said anything at all, let alone these things he’s never even dared to admit to himself. The piercing gaze continues for a few seconds too long to be comfortable before the instinct returns and Theon drops his gaze. The cheeseburger sits untouched but he doesn’t feel hungry anymore. He doesn't feel upset or angry. He feels deflated; empty. “I’m sorry.” 

Again, if this were therapy inside a beige room with a trusted professional than maybe Theon would reply  _ I understand. You are forgiven.  _ In all the years Theon knew Ramsay, as an acquaintance, a friend and eventually a lover he’s never once said he was sorry - not even as a joke. 

“I’m sorry too.” Theon isn’t even sure what he is sorry for. If he stands outside his body and looks at the relationship they had, he has done nothing wrong. Everything started innocently enough and when the tides had turned it had been Ramsay in power. Theon still had scars and for what? Minor arguments over things that never mattered. Some people say after the relationship has been over all they have left is the feelings of PTSD, just the memories of the abuse. Theon remembers nearly everything with crystal clear horror. 

The scar on his left bicep is from a steak knife piercing the muscle. It was a Tuesday and Ramsay was late coming home from work. Theon left the TV on the news. Ramsay always loved to watch the sports recap on Tuesdays, they would rehash everything from the weekend. All the sports that were in season. Basketball, baseball, hockey, football, golf. It didn’t matter so much they were saying, just that it was on. Theon was too busy trying to clean up the mess that Yara - the newest mutt they had taken in - had left in the hallway. Ramsay came in and was furious, stormed to the kitchen. He started to scream. When Theon found himself unceremoniously pinned to the wall with the very tip of the steak knife implanted inside of him and exiting into the drywall he nearly passed out. Ramsay drove him to the hospital and he needed extensive stitches. 

The burn on his side was from boiling water on a Saturday when he had assumed everything was fine between the two. They had just gotten back from a nice brunch with Theon’s sister and her new boyfriend. Ramsay told Theon he would make dinner for later and then in the same cool tone Theon was warned he’d been gaining too much weight - this lesson was learned by way of a scalding. That was still early enough that food wasn't a contraband item for Theon to access.

The scar on his ankle was from a fracture, he had needed surgery with an implanted screw. This was a real fight, Theon wanted to leave. Really really leave. He had lost twenty pounds, Ramsay never let him see his family, Theon had lost his last reliable job because Ramsay couldn’t trust him enough to go to work without being watched. It was a breaking point in some ways without the pun that was soon to come. Theon wanted to storm out of the apartment forever and he had started to pack a bag inside the bedroom with no real plans of a destination. Ramsay left the room and came back with a tire iron, swinging it like a golf club before Theon would know what he was holding. That was another hospital trip with more lies told to doctors that ended with a big bill. 

It all washes over Theon in sick sentimental waves. He would never go back; not to all that. It’s just a nostalgic ache you feel when you see something you’ve known for too long. 

“I don’t really feel hungry anymore.” Ramsay laughs, setting his fork down after he’s finished playing with the four tomatoes resting on the green bed. He hasn’t eaten much either. 

“Me too.” Theon’s stomach flips as his nose picks up the scent of the meat. He refused to eat meat for two years after he left Ramsay. All cooked meat really smells the same deep down, cow, pig, chicken, human. 

“So,” Ramsay laughs again as if this encounter is normal. As if things are okay in any sense of the word. “Want to come back to my place?” 

-

Ramsay lives on the second floor above the funeral home with his three dogs. Theon can hear them barking when they enter through the massive black doors in the front of the building. He has no intention of going upstairs into the actual house portion, but this is where they do everything. The huge building houses services in the front, a show room in the back and an entire home suitable for a full family above it all. Honestly, the American dream. 

Theon has been here a few times. He and Ramsay lived off and on inside a moderate sized apartment across town but Ramsay still worked here for the duration of their relationship. It was still essential to see customers, help them make choices on plans for loved ones, attend the services. Theon sometimes moonlighted as additional help while he was in between his own jobs. Theon remembers missing scenes inside his life; helping carry a coffin to a grave, repositioning a long dead old woman inside her casket, running off copies of prayer cards seconds before the service starts. Now all of that is his life, his issue, his dead family. 

Ramsay doesn’t feel the need to turn on the lights inside the front hall, Theon doesn’t need them. They both know the path to the back rooms where coffins are stacked in neat rows to display color, material, price. 

“Would he like to be buried or cremated?” 

“I want cremation, but we have a plot with Rodrick for him. So I guess I’ll need the box, huh?” Theon mutters, walking down the familiar hallway - his hands find the same tear in the wallpaper he always caught on years ago. Never fixed. It still smells like roses as he pushes himself further. It seems more narrow than he remembers as he looks at the shuttered doors to rooms he’ll never recall the proper names for. Waiting rooms. Mourning rooms. Viewing rooms. A series of glass doors to either side of him decked with thick black curtains to keep out watchful eyes. “Do you still have the same hearse?” 

“We have two now. But yes, we still have the old one.” Ramsay doesn’t turn, doesn’t slow his pace. Theon is sure at this very second they’re both recalling fucking inside the empty spacious back before loading in heavy coffins. It was one of Ramsay’s favorite things to do, all about power and control at all times. 

“My blood still on the carpet?” 

“Not sure. We didn’t replace it, but we did clean it.” 

It feels too surreal to be happening, this even exchange of words.Theon’s head slams against the floor of the backseat as he’s doubled up on himself, his lungs working overtime as he gasps and wants to scream. Ramsay’s hand over his mouth, daring him to speak a word and ruin the illusion that nothing is happening just feet away from the incoming mourners. His ass felt torn in two while Ramsay continued his merciless assault. 

Theon shivers despite the warm air stagnating inside the hallway as they decide against further words. No more memories to drag up. Ramsay pulls a grey key on a keychain bearing the Bolton funeral home logo from hidden inside his jacket pocket, fitting it into the lock of a plain wooden door at the end of the hall. It takes two seconds for the door to open and Ramsay to flip the lights on flooding the cramped room with overly bright lights. 

“Here we are.” He announces as if giving a tour. Theon has only been inside this part of the building a handful of times over the course of a four year relationship; mostly off limits for real employees or customers willing to spend money. There are stacks of caskets in rows on display, lids propped against a wall. It’s all so morbid, this room showing boxes for the dead. Different colors, different woods, different sizes. “Are you interested in a particular type?” 

Theon laughs low in his throat, it’s like they weren’t just talking about the blood he’s left inside the company car only a few seconds ago. It’s like everything is split right down the middle, this side of business and his history of horror. He clears his throat. 

“You’re the professional, what do you suggest?” They both feign a cool distance as Theon bounces from foot to foot, feeling enclosed in a room overly packed with coffins waiting for the right grave. 

“Well, I didn’t know him well but this one is always a popular seller.” Ramsay points to one heavy looking casket, dark wood and polished to shine stacked between a white and gold box and a light plywood looking box. Theon understands the cheap looking ones are for the cremations. “Do you have a price point?” 

“Not really. It’s his money anyway.” 

“Well, then can I show you this one - just came in this week.” Ramsay turns, leading Theon deeper into the room. Feeling overwhelmed but unable to do anything about it, the older man follows behind like a dog. They fall into the same short steps through the congested room for only a few seconds. The duo stop at something seemingly unnecessarily large that sits on it’s own set of stilts in the middle of the room. It comes up just around to Theon’s waist, the lid is propped open, a dozen of silk red roses tossed inside of it. Theon inches closer to it, settling his hands on the rim of the casket. He gazes into the open, yawning mouth of the thing like he’s looking into a deep sea. 

“What do you think?” Ramsay’s voice, his dangerously low voice is suddenly right inside his ear, tunneling into him. He’s gotten so close so quickly it takes Theon for surprise, jerking himself upright from his slumped position. He wants to turn and see how close he is but something about this moment feels like a lightning strike. Or maybe the air the seconds before the strike. It feels hot and warm and electric in the room, crowded even when they are alone. 

“I...I think…”Theon doesn’t know what he thinks. His hands rest on the solid wood, it’s smooth and comforting to his fingertips. Ramsay is so close to him each word physically buzzes against him like an insect searching for it’s home inside his brain.  _ Jokes on you - that termite already tunneled in forever ago.  _ Theon thinks, wanting to laugh. 

“This the one?” 

“I...I think maybe…” The older man tries again, the words don’t want to come out. 

“I fucking missed you.” It’s a pur inside of his body and it suddenly hits him harder than it did at the diner that he does feel the same way. He does miss Ramsay, this feeling of being closed in, trapped. It’s a helpless feeling and it makes him hang his head - staring into the open coffin as the shame floods his face. He should turn and leave, he should run away and never look back. Pick a name out of the phonebook or on Yelp to bury his father. He feels lips against the back of his neck, so softly, planting one, two, three kisses against the skin already on edge. 

_ Why,  _ He wants to scream.  _ Why now. Why are you doing this?  _ Theon feels weak, broken down. His mouth hangs open and lets his body shudder against the pressure behind him. Despite how unwanted it is, this situation isn’t entirely unpleasant. 

“I..I missed you.” Theon parrots back. He means it. He knows he won’t stay, won’t come back here, won’t repeat this mistake but in this second he can’t help himself. It’s all the same. He loves his life now, his friends, Robb with all the comfort he provides. Missing Ramsay is something different. Theon is old enough now to understand that if he stayed in that relationship he would be dead. He would be thrown into one of these graves sooner rather than later. But there was something about the highs that made some of the lows worth the ride. 

Ramsay’s fingers press into the sides of his arms, not hard enough to bruise but hard enough to make the point. It’s all for naught because the point has been made long ago and Theon feels the air inside of him come out through his nose in a quick rush. Ramsay’s lips leave wet, sticky prints against his skin. There is no malice inside the moment, which is odd considering how much malice was dripping from Ramsay whenever he touched Theon for years. 

“Don’t do that.” Theon says, it’s the first thing that’s clear from his mouth. 

“I know.” Ramsay replies, his voice is still that husky tone but it’s sharper now. As if he were ever really waiting for permission before his hands grasp the arms beneath them tighter. “Better?” Theon only nods, feeling himself melt into the moment. If it’s going to happen - and he knows that it is - he wants to be worth it. He knows if he didn’t prompt the harsher treatment it would still come, but at this rate it’ll be better. Faster.

He didn’t come here to get fucked but if that is the new plan then he intends on it being worth the hassle. Worth the heartache of lying to Robb about it. He knows there will be bruises on his skin, he isn’t sure how he’ll explain it. Maybe he’ll just hide it under long sleeves. He’s still planning what to tell Robb about his arms when Ramsay’s teeth sink into the skin near his collarbone. He can’t help the moan he lets out, throaty, raw and filled with a need he didn’t understand he still had. 

This is what kept him frozen in his tracks for years. He hates himself, hates his father for dying and leading him straight back into the arms of this maniac. He lets Ramsay chew his flesh for a second, sucking the tender pale skin into his mouth, leaving a purpling welt behind. He has to remind himself he wants this; but that’s not too hard - unlike himself. Theon finds himself slowly hardening under the well known foreplay he’s lacked for years. 

He wants to have one hour, one hour letting this exit his system. Some great bleeding event before he lets it all go forever. For good this time. No more dead relatives, he thinks as Ramsay’s hands trail down his sides, his hips. Ramsay allows his thumbs to catch on the edges of Theon’s jean pockets before traveling further down still. It’s not a coy game anymore, Theon can feel that Ramsay himself is rock hard against the curve of his ass. He grinds his hips back because it’s all he can think of to do, his head lolls on his neck like his bones are made of jelly. 

It’s a play with motions only, strictly without words and Theon feels the same reassurance of smooth wood under his fingers that he felt before this began. It’s firm and he finds himself tracing the grain over and over even as he brings his head forward to look down into the soft fabric lined box. The fake flowers look back up at him. This is the one, he knows. This is going to be his father’s casket. Ramsay sucks another patch of skin on his neck, catching the flesh between his teeth. Willing it to crack open. Theon’s fingers reach out to feel the white lining and it’s as soft as he imagined it would be. Ramsay seems to disengage his own mouth from the skin before him, forcing a needy groan from the older man - but only for a moment as he busies himself with other objectives. One hand tugs on Theon’s pants from behind, pulling them slightly downward even as Ramsay’s other hand works on the pale neck before him, holding and pulling upwards. Commanding without words as he brings his own lips to meet Theon’s for a second. 

There is too much spit in the kiss. It’s warm, sloppy, and intoxicating. Between the two of them there is much that wants to crawl out into the open. Ramsay chokes it all back by cutting the air from Theon’s lungs. It feels right. It’s like putting on a favorite pair of shoes or watching a favorite movie. He can feel his head get light too quickly from the years away from this abuse. He wants this to last and tilts his head back, stealing the air from inside the younger man’s mouth. He sucks greedily at the open lips until he feels teeth against his lower lip - but he doesn’t let it stop him. Gasping he persists in his own assault and feels the fat meat of his lips catch and pull, feels warmth leaking from him. 

A split lip will be harder to explain than bruises on his arms and neck but he doesn’t care. Theon’s brain is slowly powering down and he feels himself pressed into the hardwood. He feels hips buck angrily against his and it’s a bone on bone on solid surface and it all works together to make his head snap back forward and into the moment. 

“I fucking hate you.” Theon hisses, feeling all the tension in his body forcing him to stand straighter against the well muscled body behind him. The grip on his throat is released for a second - his lips purse and his mouth yawns open as his face floods with color. His pants are someplace around his boots, his underwear have followed suit and he feels hot naked skin pressing against the backs of his bare thighs. 

There is nothing that is stopping another member of the Bolton family from walking in right now, opening the door to this room with another line of customers wanting to look at the wares. Theon shudders, feeling his cock drip with precome all over the side of his father’s final resting place. 

“Not as much as I fucking hate you.” Ramsay’s voice is a growl, it makes Theon’s knees weak as he feels the familiar hardness of his cock pressing against the curve of his ass. A firm hand presses into the center of his spine. There is no place left to go except down and he fights it. The memories he’s had all night and day spike inside his mind while he recalls even with all the things he did want to do, the endless list of things he did not want to - and the drive to do them anyway. It’s a hard ball inside his stomach, looming at him from the place of the fake flowers beneath him. He doesn’t want to be pushed down any further but finds himself overly pliable under the pressure. 

Theon’s face is further and further pressed until his feet aren't on the ground, his arms, his head, his whole torso is more inside the coffin than outside, dangling precariously over the open edge. His shirt is tugged up around his chest, the bare skin of his stomach flush with the casket. It’s not until his face finally meets the soft white linen inside that Ramsay stops applying force and simply keeps him still there as he slicks his own cock with only saliva. It doesn’t matter. In the whole time they knew each other it wasn’t ever loving, soft, gentle. It was always a battle, taking something from each other by force. That’s all Theon wants at this moment. Something to make this all worth it. 

When Ramsay finally fills Theon’s waiting hole it’s like the planets have aligned, between the deceptively soft fabric smothering his face, the pressure and burn of Ramsay’s girth forcing itself into him, the guilt of it all, being fucked inside his father’s casket, it’s all too much. It’s a psychological over stimulation that only Ramsay could master and Theon cracks, the tears come freely, streaking down his cheeks even as he bucks his hips against the smooth wood. He’s caught like a rat inside a clever trap. 

His cock is long ignored as his fingers try to grip anything for stability, the whole table the heavy box is resting on is rocked with each violent motion. It’s almost like being on a ship, someplace under the darkness of the waves. It’s trashing without rhythm, there is no sense to the push and pull. Each motion is different from the last, a sporadic coupling that leaves Ramsay’s hand tangled inside Theon’s thick grey hair. It’s knotted, clumped around his knuckles and he tugs only to shove the face under his attack back into the white; staining the surface with tears and saliva. There are gasps, pants, wordless screams that don’t reach the volume needed to alert neighbors. They don’t need to talk to each other. It doesn’t matter if they like it. It never mattered. 

Theon surrenders, there will be no stabilization. His attempts to worm his own hand between himself and the jarringly hard surface he’s stuck against are fruitless and offer no comfort in the rocking. After a short struggle his hand feels cramped and broken under the pressure. Changing course he can think of a better use for it as he wraps the aching appendage around his own throbbing cock, feeling fireworks set off behind his eyes while Ramsay angles his own hips upwards. It’s a dirty trick, catching him in the kind of position that twists his own body against him, utilizes the environment in such a sickening way. The pressure crushes Theon’s hand, capturing it tightly and he can’t move it up or down. Theon feels something like nerve damage in his fingertips as they tingle then go slowly numb. It’’s so frustrating but this is what fucking Ramsay is, endless frustration. 

Once he allowed himself to lean into the feeling he lets go of the hope of an orgasm, chasing it will only make things worse - he knows this from experience. If it happens it will be a surprise, welcome but not expected. He shuts off any part of his brain that is left trying to process any kind of thought.. All he can do is keep his mouth open, allowing his lungs to function for themselves. Ramsay doesn’t stop, picks up the pace again, clutching the jutting bones of Theon’s hips, grinding himself against the soft skin. The table shifts again and again under the weight and the older man, helplessly rocks with it. It’s painful. It’s uncomfortable. It’s pathetic. The tears won’t stop coming. Still it makes Theon let out greedy, hungry little noises inside the back of his throat/ When Ramsay’s fingers finally let go of the bony hips and return to their post at Theon’s thin throat the feeling is too delicious to ignore. They clench tighter and tighter until Theon can’t even see the surrounding white of the coffin. His vision narrowed to a pinpoint of black. It seems carefully planned when Ramsay finally releases his grip, it’s not a surprise to find Theon coming against the hardwood under his cock pressing into him like an unyielding rock. 

It drips unceremoniously down the side of the dark material as Ramsay thrusts two more times before stilling. Theon, in his own way coming down from the achingly familiar not entirely satisfying release, bucks his ass back up and lets Ramsay fill him. 

_One more time._ He thinks, the hot warmth flooding him. The two stay stuck together for too long, it feels like years. It feels like the casket is a time machine and they’ve been transported back six or seven years. Theon is left feeling extra empty when Ramsay finally pulls out, the gush of come like an avalanche from his well used ass begins to drip down his thighs. It’s easy to imagine the feeling is like committing a crime in front of the cops. It feels sick and wrong and makes his stomach toss, filled with only a few greasy fries and cramping in obvious discomfort from the awkward position he’s been folded into. 

They don’t really speak for the next few minutes. Ramsay steps back from the half nude man finally allowing him to worm his way out of the box after a few seconds of half hearted attempts. Ramsay chuckles, watching the comedic act of Theon’s feet swinging as he attempts to push himself up. 

Righting himself, Theon tugs the hem of his shirt down while yanking his underwear and jeans up. Back into place in the same second like a magic trick. 

“That’s not going to be his coffin right?” He asks, spotting the gross, milky white deposit just below the handle on the side. It slides in slow motion down, down, down. Theon thinks it’s more than he’s come in years. 

“That’s the only one we have in that style.” Ramsay clears his throat, the smile is clear inside his voice. “I think you can understand how much I highly recommend  _ that  _ one.” Just another form of psychological warfare being waged back and forth, but Theon is tired. His underwear are slowly soaking through with Ramsay’s come, still dripping from his gaping hole. 

“Fine.” There is no reason to fight. 

“Excellent.” Ramsay says. Theon can finally turn from the aforementioned purchase and meet his abuser. Ramsay looks perfect in only the way a predator can after catching its prey. He’s all teeth, only a slight tint of pink dotting his sharp cheeks. His hair is perfectly imperfect, curls ary the way they always are. His clothing looks intact. It doesn't look like he just fucked Theon nearly into the grave. The only tell is the scent of sex clinging to him like perfume. He doesn’t feel the need to nervously adjust his clothes the way Theon does.

“Okay, what now?” Theon thinks of Robb, sitting at home, watching TV and waiting for him. Robb asleep on the pull out couch with his chin tucked over his mother’s grey and green blanket in the pale moonlight. Robb kissing his mouth and asking a question like  _ what happened here.  _ The voice is tender, soft, joking almost. Theon will have to lie. He fears the stain inside his boxers will leak into the seat of his jeans. If it does he’ll skip the laundry entirely and throw everything away. 

“Well I’ll write up your purchase for today. Then we can plan the next time we meet.” Ramsay’s face cracks with the familiar smile that makes Theon shake. He wills his legs to be strong. It’s a dangerous look. “Maybe we can fit some time in tomorrow. We still have a lot to talk about.” 

**Author's Note:**

> Guess Christmas came a little early. 
> 
> So I've been sick for a while now and I've been watching all kinds of shows. In a fever dream I watched something on Netflix about the people who run funeral homes and then this little ditty wrote itself lol. Please forgive if I am rusty. 
> 
> I may have convinced my girl to get us a coffin with this though - so even if you don't like it at least I'm getting something out of it! <3


End file.
